


the way is dark, the way is long

by Marishna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Desert, Gen, POV Stiles, Stiles Stilinski's Jeep's Name is Roscoe, Stiles Uses A Baseball Bat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:11:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marishna/pseuds/Marishna
Summary: “Fuck.”He swings around in the middle of the road and doubles back, pulling into the lot carefully.  When he hops out he stifles a groan at how much his back and legs ache but forces himself to stand tall with his baseball bat held loosely in one hand.The hot wind spits gritty sand and filth against his cheek but he doesn’t move.





	the way is dark, the way is long

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a song prompt from card_writing at gameofcards on LJ. The song was "The Ghost Of You" by My Chemical Romance.

On an endless highway somewhere in the desert between California and Nevada Stiles’ Jeep rocks from the unrelenting wind. 

He thinks it’s from the wind, anyway. It’s not like anyone’s balanced his wheels in a while but even if anyone still did that kind of thing they’d tell him he needs new ones. He knows some of these days one’s gonna pop and when it happens… 

He slows when he sees a long-faded road sign, heralding what might still be a gas station. He has to try. 

He doesn’t stop as he comes up on it about thirty miles later. He slows again and peers across the dusty road to see if there’s any sign of life. There’s a drag-eared hound dog sprawled in a sliver of shade and the station front door is wide open. 

Stiles checks his gas gauge and casts a look at the empty cans in his backseat.

“Fuck.”

He swings around in the middle of the road and doubles back, pulling into the lot carefully. When he hops out he stifles a groan at how much his back and legs ache but forces himself to stand tall with his baseball bat held loosely in one hand. 

The hot wind spits gritty sand and filth against his cheek but he doesn’t move. There’s a beer can chime that’s seen better days clanking off-key against the building at the far end and Stiles can faintly hear a TV over the other sounds. The hound dog raises his head and surveys Stiles but either it’s too hot to move or Stiles isn’t a threat in his eyes.

“Hello?” he calls out warily, waiting. 

From inside the station he can hear shuffling and the TV shuts off. A few seconds later an old man appears in the doorway, wearing a button-up shirt with a faded logo that Stiles vaguely could see on the sign on the building overhead. 

“‘Lo?” The old man croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes, young fella? What can I do for you?”

“Do you still have gas?” Stiles asks, tapping his bat lightly against the side of one of the pumps. 

The way the old man sizes him up reminds Stiles of the werewolves and how they could get the measure of you by scent, a skipped heartbeat, the tensing of muscles.

It was kind of comforting.

“Maybe. What’re you offering?”

Stiles pauses, staring back at the man and wondering if this is the day he finally has to come down on the side of force to get what he needs. The bat weighs heavy against his leg. 

Behind the old man there’s movement and before he can stop her a young girl pokes her head out of the door behind him. 

“Who’re you?” She demands of Stiles, staring him down fiercely. 

“Rose quit it.” The old man tries to shove her back inside but she’s determined and side steps him easily. She doesn’t relent in her glaring and dares Stiles to defy her with her hands on her hips, standing tall in a stained t-shirt and ripped jean shorts. She’s missing a tooth just to the left of her front ones but she’s too old to still have baby teeth.

“I’m Stiles.” She doesn’t seem overly satisfied by that answer so he decides to try showing instead of telling.

He slowly walks to the back of the Jeep and opens the door just enough that they can’t see everything he’s got. He pokes through a couple bags, trying to find something to trade.

Something shiny catches his eye and he pulls it out in hopes it’s the lost silver dollar from his dad’s old collection but instead pulls out his Sheriff’s badge instead. Stiles rubs his thumb over the words _Beacon Hills_ and considers it for a second--

With a snarl at himself, he shoves the star back into the bag and throws it aside. His eyes run over his makeshift weapons bag but won’t part with any of them. Same with the meagre collection of canned food he collected or any of his supplies to keep Roscoe running. 

Through the grimy back window, Stiles sees Rose carry a bucket of water carefully over to where the hound dog is lying. She grabs what looks like an old plastic butter container and dips it into the bucket. When she pulls it out Stiles can see the water isn’t clear like it should be. 

He moves a couple boxes in the back of the Jeep and sees two full four-litre bottles of water. He had what amounts to drops in a bottle in the front. Sighing, he pulls one of the full bottles out and shuts the door.

“This work?” Stiles asks, handing the bottle over to the old man slowly. He watches him carefully, waiting for him to pull a gun to demand the rest or charge him. 

Instead, Stiles hears a sharp inhalation and maybe it’s a combination of the heat, the wind, and the dirt but the man’s eyes look like they’re a little red. 

“Grampy? S’that real?” Rose asks from behind them.

“Hush Rose, take this inside,” the old man instructs her quickly. She does as asked, casting an unreadable look at Stiles as she rushes inside. 

Within minutes the old man unlocks the pumps and Stiles is filling up, working quickly to get the jerry cans in the back as full as possible until something goes south. 

“We got cars in the back.” Rose sneaks up behind Stiles and he jumps at the sound of her voice. It’s been a while since anyone’s spoken to him, let alone practically gotten the jump on him.

“Keep that a secret, okay?” Stiles instructs as caps one can and starts to fill another.

She rolls her eyes. “You could have one.”

Stiles blinks. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks.”

Rose eyes his Jeep dubiously. “You think this thing’s gonna get you anywhere?”

Stiles chuckles, a genuine sound for the first time in what’s likely months. “I’ve been across the country and back in this guy,” he explains, running a hand over the dusty outside. 

Rose casts a side-eye towards the station and Stiles gets the impression she’s not supposed to be out here at all, let alone with a stranger. “Where you goin’?”

“Beacon Hills?”

“I don’t know where that is.”

Stiles smiles and nods. “Small town in northern California. Lots of trees. I hope so, anyway.”

“You got family there?”

Stiles starts to nod but stops himself and looks down at his hands. “I hope so,” he repeats softly. He finishes pumping gas into the last jerrycan and caps it, then sends a silent prayer into the universe that this gets him home.

“I think you should take a car that’ll actually get you there,” Rose insists. 

Stiles stands and loads the cans into the back of the Jeep, then wipes his hands off on his filthy khaki shorts. He crouches down to look Rose in the eye with a small smile.

“Until I get home he’s all I got. I mean, it’s only the end of the world, right?”

Rose rolls her eyes. “You’re not funny.”

Stiles pulls a face at her. “Everyone’s a critic.”

“But,” she continues with a slight hint of irritation in her tone. “I hope you find your family.”

Stiles nods slowly. “Thanks.”

He’s back on the road within five minutes. The sun was barely starting to set but he knows things can get squirrely after dark. The last thing he sees as he pulls away from the station is Rose holding her grandfather’s hand and the hound slowly lapping at the water in his bowl.

He can’t do more for them and would risk his own life if he tried. He knows this deep down but they might be the last nice people he sees on the road until Beacon Hills. Hell, they might be the last _people_.

As day passes into night Roscoe’s headlights show his only route and sole purpose. He runs his hand over the dash and pats it softly.

“Just you and me, bud. Let’s go home.”


End file.
